Bear Necessities
by JWood201
Summary: The eighth castaway shares his thoughts on the seven others.


_This has been sitting around for months waiting for an ending. I don't know if it's perfect, but it's as good as it's going to get in the near future. I tried something a little different here. I hope you enjoy it. _

_I had totally forgotten that I was originally inspired by Teobi's chapter of "A Multitude of Sins" about Mr. Howell, so a big fat shout out to her and her consistent amazingness. :)_

_This one is for Sherwood Schwartz, who inspired me to study television scriptwriting in college. I began writing this one with him in mind during Ginger's portion, so this story is dedicated to him, although it's almost two months since he passed away._

_This is also for one of my really good friends, who needs a Teddy hug right about now._

**Bear Necessities**

I am the eighth castaway.

I was on the Minnow that day. Packed away carefully in a steamer trunk, nestled between a mink and a chinchilla and resting on a firm bed of hundred dollar bills. When the weather started getting rough, the lid opened and I was woken from my hibernation. Time to go to work.

I lived the first part of my life on a cold metal shelf in the hospital gift shop between the balloons and the perky get well cards that tried so hard to be cheerful – cartoon puppies in casts, cats with thermometers in their mouths and hot water bottles under their paws – when everyone knew perfectly well that the end was near.

I had no idea of the life that lie before me on that otherwise nondescript Tuesday in 1930 when my usual unchanging view of the cough drops on the shelf across the aisle was interrupted by a beautiful young woman.

She walked past, but glanced in my direction. After a moment, she backed up and studied me through glittering blue eyes. Her hat perched perfectly atop a pile of blonde curls. Her giant diamond engagement ring glinted under the harsh overhead light. She cocked her head thoughtfully to one side and smiled at me.

She stared at me and I stared back through my dark plastic eyes. My furry little arms were perpetually stuck out to the sides, beckoning. "Pick me. Forget the balloons. They don't last. I'll be there for you forever."

She heard and she picked me. She carried me into her husband's hospital room behind her back. He was in bed moaning and complaining and the doctor by his bedside was trying not to roll his eyes. There was nothing wrong with him. Just a tummy ache from some bad caviar. But he wouldn't accept it, demanding to know who owned the hospital and threatening malpractice suits. I was beginning to miss my cold metal shelf in the gift shop already.

But he stopped when he saw that his wife had returned. He called her 'Lovey' and I loved them instantly. She took me from behind her back and pouted at her husband. "Look what I've got for my big baby," she cooed, trying hard not to laugh outright at him. He stared at her for a moment, eyebrows up into his hairline, trying to decide if he wanted to be insulted or not. Finally, he laughed.

I became something of an inside joke between them. Whenever one of them was suffering from some innocuous ailment – a paper cut or a splinter – I'd be given again, produced from behind the other's back the same as the day I was adopted. I'd be presented as a surprise, a comfort for the big baby, always with a pout and the resulting feigned offense and fabricated bluster.

But eventually I became more.

When he went away on business trips, he left me with her. The Depression had passed them by, leaving them immune and unscathed in its wake, and business was steady. He'd get up early, retrieve me from my pillow on the window seat in their room, kiss her on the forehead, and tuck me within her arms. I'd stay there for a few days, a week, two weeks, until he came home.

When she went away for her philanthropic business, to visit her sister, or to the hospital, sometimes she would arrive at her room and open her suitcase to find me waiting for her, cushioned on a bed of chiffon, furry arms out for her.

Other times he needed me to stay with him when she was away.

In 1933 I was supposed to come home from the hospital in a bassinet with a baby. Instead I came home in her handbag, held in her lap during the long silent car ride.

I would often go with her to visit the many orphanages that she funded. She loved the children and would hold court with them, perched on a chair with me in her lap, the children gathered around her, staring up at her with little faces full of admiration and awe and love.

Then she'd tell them about my power. She'd tell them that everyone, old and young, boys and girls, needs a bear. Someone to love and to comfort them and to tell their troubles to. "Teddy knows everything," she'd explain, stroking my head, "and he never tells a soul. He listens and he loves you no matter what and his arms are always out to hug you. He never puts them down."

When the children were so enthralled with me that she had to hold me tightly in her lap so no sticky little hands could grab me and spirit me away, she'd turn to the door and call out with a dramatic flourish of her opera-gloved hand. After a moment, her nieces and nephews would appear, each laden with a heavy bag filled with bears – my twins, my triplets, newer and fresher. But that would soon change in the hands of the eager, grateful orphans, whose troubles were so many and so powerful that their bears would wear faster than I. But they would endure, absorb the troubles into their stuffing, take the pain from the children and stuff it deep down inside until it disappeared.

I went everywhere. Just in case someone needed me. Stays with friends in the Hamptons. Shuttled between their many houses. Vacations all around the world.

I'm shipwrecked now. I guess not many bears can say that. They still need me and so do the five others.

He was embarrassed at first – a grown man, a business tycoon, with a teddy bear. Imagine! But the others didn't care. It humanized him, showed the heart I know he has and hid away under years of privileged struggle. He skulks around camp in a fancy smoking jacket and ascot with me under one arm. They just smile as he passes.

"You're more dressed up to go to bed than I am to be awake," Gilligan tells him one night after the women move to the other side of the island. He agrees with Gilligan, pats me on the head, and gets into bed. He holds me close and says goodnight to his wife, wherever she is. He had to snatch me up and hide me behind his back earlier that day, afraid that she'd take me with her. He needs me that night. They all do. The men are cranky, pouting, lonely. Pretending to be tough, but they dream and they can't sleep.

I have my work cut out for me here on the island. I'm needed by seven different people in seven different ways. When bad things happen, I'm there, silent and unchanging and comforting. Homesickness, loneliness, natural disasters, illnesses, test missiles, Lone Wolves, marital spats, hunters, nightmares, failures, loves, misunderstandings, cannibals, cheating death, heartbreak. I've seen it all and I've heard about much more.

Mrs. Howell has an uncanny ability to know when someone needs me and she inevitably shows up at their hut just before bedtime. She pulls me from behind her back, wordlessly presents me in the traditional manner, and leaves before they can utter a sound. Somehow she knows and somehow her husband lets me go. But he always comes to get me in the morning. He snatches me back possessively, his thick eyebrows drawn together. _That's enough time with Teddy_, he says. _Teddy's time is precious._ He says he should start charging for it. But he knows my power. Knows they need me. Knows he can do without me for a night or two.

The Skipper and the Professor claim that they don't need me. Gilligan and Mary Ann fight over me. Ginger never says a word either way, but is always happy when I show up at her door. I've spent the night in every hut on the island and in a few of the caves when they're transformed into Gilligan's temporary quarters. The Lone Wolf. He doesn't want to live alone, but he thinks they want it that way sometimes. Time and again he moves away after an accident, convinced that they're back at camp happy and laughing and not even noticing that he's gone. But I watch them miss him – the women pout, Mary Ann cries, and the men scheme about how to get him back. I'll inevitably end up at the cave and Gilligan will realize that if they're willing to search for him and give him their blankets and their food and me that they really do love him.

So far we've repeated this process at least ten times. Every time he feels just as bad and is just as thrilled when they beg him to return.

Gilligan dreams the most out of all of them. Sometimes violently. Sometimes he flings me across the hut without realizing it. He always apologizes in the morning, brushing the sand from my fur, and I have to forgive him. I stayed with him for a solid week after his encounter with the hunter. He dreamt constantly, tossing and turning, squeezing me and tossing me away.

Sometimes I think he needs me the most. I've certainly spent the most time with him. If I'm lying around somewhere near where he's working, he always explains what he's doing, tells me stories to disguise the silence. Last week he introduced me to his newest friend, a baby chimpanzee who didn't quite know what to make of me at first. We stared at each other for a while and he eventually gathered me into his hairy arms, oohing and grunting and finally running off into the jungle with Gilligan hot on his heels, one hand on his hat, pleading with the chimp to bring me back or Mr. Howell'll really let him have it.

One afternoon he was tying a new knot to secure his hammock and he got so carried away showing me the different kinds of knots that he ended up with one giant tangled mess instead of a hammock. He slept on the ground that night with me by his side, the Skipper sighing at him in the darkness.

I know all about Skinny Mulligan and Fatso Flanagan and Cousin Rudolph and his friend Claude and the day Florence Oppenheimer got her first training bra in grammar school and those guys fell all over each other trying to sit on each other's shoulders to see into the window of the girls' locker room on the second floor. I know about Aunt Sarah's sneaky disease and about the time Mary Ann tried to hold his hand during a butterfly hunt. He panicked and decided to point at something vaguely interesting, but she was holding on tighter than he thought and when his arm shot out in front of him he accidentally pulled her into a big mud puddle. He felt so guilty that he jumped in himself and they both trudged back to camp looking like the pair of wallowing pigs in Mr. Higgenbotham's pen.

I know about the time he saved the Skipper's life, too. I don't think anyone else knows. They don't know about the danger he put himself in, how he leapt up without thinking and threw himself into the Skipper to knock him out of harm's way. They don't know about his medal.

The Skipper is the bravest man I've ever met. He also has the biggest heart, which makes him vulnerable. Some nights he'll return to his hut and find me propped up on the table waiting for him. Mrs. Howell's sixth sense has kicked in and he eyes me warily as he sidesteps toward his hammock. What war hero needs a teddy bear?

Gilligan comes back to the hut later and grins when he sees me. "Hi, Teddy! What are you doing here?" The Skipper rolls his eyes from his hammock. "Oh, boy, Teddy, you wouldn't believe the day I had." Gilligan picks me up and climbs into his hammock. He holds me up so he can look at me while he recounts his day. "This morning I had nine lobsters in the traps. Nine! And then I went swimming and chopped firewood and Mary Ann and I played with the baby chimp and then I caddied for Mr. Howell and ate four pieces of coconut crème pie for dessert. And did you know that Ginger's sister got married today? She was supposed to be the Maid of Honor and she was real sad about it so I took her to that pretty valley with all the flowers that she loves to cheer her up. It's too bad that she's stuck on this island."

We hear the Skipper sigh from the lower hammock and Gilligan suddenly realizes why I'm there. It's not for him. Some days the Skipper feels particularly guilty about the shipwreck. When there's a birthday back home or someone misses a milestone, the Skipper goes ashen and disappears for the rest of the afternoon. Gilligan rolls over to peer down at the captain. "Skipper?" He pretends to be asleep, but Gilligan holds me out to him. "Skipper?"

The captain cracks one eye open and frowns. "Never mind, Gilligan." He closes his eyes again and settles into his hammock.

After a moment, there's the soft thud of me landing on his ample belly and Gilligan's voice from above, low and reverent. "He helps, Skipper."

I spend the rest of the night almost invisible in the crook of his massive arm, listening to his snoring and feeling it rumble through him and wondering vaguely how anyone on that island gets any sleep at all.

One would think that it would be Ginger who would need me the night her sister gets married, but it's not. She had been preparing herself for the possibility of not being at the wedding since we first became shipwrecked. What she hadn't been preparing herself for was hearing on the radio that a famous Hollywood producer has passed away. He was well into his nineties, but she was still shocked. She went quiet and didn't make one of her usual remarks about Hollywood wolves and shady studio characters.

Later when I'm in the girls' hut and Mary Ann is fast asleep, Ginger explains to me that this producer gave her a start in Hollywood. He was a fine upstanding family man and one of the few producers who didn't expect anything from her and shared her aversion to the "casting couch." He hated it himself and always had a few choice words for his unscrupulous colleagues.

He respected her as a person, as an artist, and routinely invited her to dinner at his house with his family. She chatted with his wife and played with his children. The home cooked meal fed her stomach and her soul and steeled her against the depravity and degradation that the next day would inevitably bring.

Despite this, Ginger tells the other castaways repeatedly that she misses the glamour and wants to go back and further her career. On her artistic merits. But this producer's house always made her feel a little less lonely in the strange land of Hollywood. He was almost like her west coast father. It felt a little like home, like family.

"The island is like that, too," Ginger whispers. "Don't tell anyone I said that." She smiles, holds a finger to my lips. "I missed my real sister's wedding," she adds, glancing over to make sure her roommate is still asleep. "But maybe one day I can go to Mary Ann's..."

But the next day Gilligan's done it again.

He's said something stupid and reduced Mary Ann to a confused, angry mess, hands on her hips, "Oh, Gilligan!"ing him from here to next Tuesday, glaring at his back as he ambles away, completely oblivious, her lip quivering dangerously as soon as he's out of sight.

Mrs. Howell and I show up at her hut an hour later. There's some girl talk and Mrs. Howell gives her surrogate daughter the same speech she gave her children on the mainland about my power.

Mary Ann tells me that I remind her of her childhood bear. She hopes he's still on the bed in her room thousands of miles away, that her cousins haven't kidnapped him and worn him out. She kisses me on the nose and makes sure the covers are tucked around us both. She wraps me in her arms and rests her cheek on my head. I'm comfortable here with her. I rest peacefully. I never end up on the floor or squished underneath someone or tangled in the blankets. But sometimes she talks in her sleep, muttering about butterflies and flying and some guy named Scott. She hugs me during the night, holds me close, clings to me, and sometimes I'm sure she's dreaming that I'm someone else.

During the day when she's straightening up the Howell hut, she props me up somewhere and talks to me as she goes about her tasks. She talks a little about everything, just to fill the silence, but eventually I learn about her childhood, about her aunt and uncle, about those she's loved and lost, about how she thinks no one listens when she speaks. She's lonely sometimes, a little bit desperate. I listen, in my customary way, arms out just in case. She picks me up, finished with her chores, and turns to rest me in my usual place on Mr. Howell's pillow. She peers down at me and for a moment I'm convinced that she knows my secret, that she can tell that I hear everything, that I know it all.

Gilligan suddenly appears in the doorway and says that he's been looking for her all over the place. He wants her to go butterfly hunting with him. She lights up and I feel her hands tighten around me. She says goodbye to me, kisses me on the nose – it's our ritual, I'd miss it if she stopped – and places me gently back on the pillow before bounding from the hut.

Mr. Howell shatters the idyllic tropical silence one afternoon when he discovers a tear in my shoulder seam. He stomps his feet, makes idle threats, offers rewards, and causes a general ruckus demanding to know how it happened. Gilligan, of course, gets first blame, but he's just as horrified at my injury. Mary Ann coos over me like I'm a baby bird that's fallen from its nest.

They take me to the Professor, who replies with a grin that he can sew me up as good as new. Mr. Howell looks worried for a moment, like it would actually hurt me, but his wife is relieved. They leave me with him and retreat outside where Mr. Howell paces like an expectant father. I remember that.

The Professor props me up on his table and sets to work, behaving with the utmost professionalism and with the poise and seriousness of a seasoned surgeon. Ginger brings him some hot water and neither one of them is sure why, but she uses any excuse to help him and she likes to get as much use out of her crisp white nurse's uniform as possible.

"Don't look at me like that," the Professor says after she's gone and he's begun sewing up my shoulder, gently pushing the stuffing back inside. I'm watching him closely, the same as always, my plastic eyes shining. "Stop it." He frowns a little and glances away, then intently at my shoulder to avoid eye contact. "I'm not going to fall for that face. I'm not going to start talking to you like you're real. You're an inanimate object."

The Professor is quiet for a long time while he works. I love to watch the Professor work. He's a fascinating man. People think he's stuffy and aloof and Mr. Howell is fond of calling him The Egghead, but he really is a very warm man. He makes corny jokes and despite his genius is possibly even worse at reading women than Gilligan.

"You know, part of me always wanted to become a doctor," he says and I'm not sure he realizes that he's begun talking to me like I'm real. "A surgeon. But I had too many interests. I didn't want to commit to so many years of medical school. I wanted to study psychology, sociology, travel, go on archaeological digs, do research. Of course, extensive medical training would come in handy here, but I contemplate whether it's better that I know a bit about a lot of things rather than a lot about one specialized subject." He's sewing my shoulder up with tiny precise medical stitches. He would have been an excellent surgeon. "I wonder what would have happened if I had gone to medical school," he muses. "I certainly wouldn't be here operating on a teddy bear. In fact, I wouldn't be here at all." He pauses, concentrating on his perfect stitches, and I like to believe that he's pretending he's in the emergency room right now. That's what Gilligan would be doing and at their core they're not so different. They're all human.

I ponder for a moment why they didn't take me to Mary Ann to sew me up. Not that the Professor isn't doing an excellent job, but all of the sewing tasks automatically go to Mary Ann. I assume that Mrs. Howell suspected that he was itching to play doctor. It's been a while and she somehow knows exactly what everyone needs when they need it. The Professor needs to be needed or else he gets nervous. He needs to be working, to be busy. He could be making a plan for rescue, making a raft, making Mr. Howell the new set of golf clubs he's been whining about. He could be doing more.

"There you are, Teddy." The Professor trims the excess thread and examines the seam. He pats me on the arm. I can tell he wants to give his tiny patient a lollipop. "Nice and strong again. Although I'm afraid I'm less adroit with a needle and thread than Mary Ann. It doesn't look perfect."

But I'm not bothered. These types of things come with the job. It's a scar to be proud of. A battle wound. An occupational hazard.

I earned this mark. Not from sleeping in caves or being toted around in a steamer trunk. Not from being flung from hammocks or falling off the table. No matter how much money Mr. Howell offers for information, the wound wasn't malicious. It wasn't even an accident. It's not from foul play or environmental factors or even carelessness.

It's from love.

I'm well-worn and well-loved. I hold everyone's secrets, their fears, their hopes, their dreams. I carry their burdens and they fill me up and weigh me down. I take it all from their shoulders. They have enough to worry about and I'm happy to help.

I'm worn from hugs, of happiness and sorrow, of love and heartbreak, of excitement and disappointment. My fur is matted from salty tears. My nose is shiny from kisses.

I'm just doing my job. I listen and I love you no matter what and my arms are always out to hug you.

I never put them down.


End file.
